My eyes ache, I must have overslept, the agony of meek existence creeping in.
But I remember, It crawls back to me like a soft piece of silk gliding over my hairy arm.
A beautiful face, my wife kissing me before fleeing to work with her glossy oily lips. Smelling her inviting perfume coiling my nose. It could’ve barely woke me up. It was that odd beautiful ritual that your brain stops caring after a while.
Now I really woke up. The curtains still stir from the blowing wind, no yellow rays filtering from the satin drapes, only bright gray luminescence; this day had a bad mood to it.
I turn on my back and pull back the skin on my face. Eagerly groping from the nearest thought. Then suddenly I recall a long-lost island of past senses sweeping back into a mosaic bouquet.
I ignore it at first, but again, it pushes back, ramming my gates with a forbidden face. A beautiful taboo of a face that called me once a handsome boy.
She had soft gleaming white skin, sprinkled with minute orange dots, too far apart to be called freckles, as if she belonged to an exquisite race.
Her eyes drawn, rudely piercing with iridescent blue, her two angled cheeks flowing down the shallow curve, leading me down to the pointed chin that complemented those thin, yet live protruding lips. Her neck curling into a full wide body, every poet would describe as a full well-grown woman, her mannerism, the way she draws the breath into her words, and sighs at the end of each sentence. I remember how she smelled when I came near her. How she laughed at silly things and cried with those alluring eyes. How her sobs made me ache for her, want her in me. As close as possible.
That lust was demonic, it was lush and vicious enough to claim a thousand souls. Happily given to the hot, humid push of her breath into my mouth.
I wished I had never remembered her, but I think my mind had found the world too placid that morning, so it fashioned a more palatable start for the day; I should be grateful. So did the mast rising from my bed. I was ashamed and tortured by the ghostly spell. How a thought could alter my inner world, and poke through a living limb into reality. Long story short, I dealt with it.
10 minutes and a sticky napkin later, it was all gone. All deflating back into the common recess of the long lost and forgotten, no more remembrance of that soft, sweet-smelling nymph of my past, no more shattering waves clashing between the tubules of creation twisting between my legs. No more rogue thoughts attempting the forbidden, on one flickering moment, I had wondered if I still had her number. If I could again hear that windy voice.
I pull out a hand, I see all of my shabby notions, sticking between the crinkled folds of cheep biodegradable paper. My lower half was relieved, but the other still lingered for a more tangible, solid answer.
Was all lust but a primordial chemical question, meant to incentify the propagation of a wretched flawed race? Why did we think of it as more than that? Why place so much meaning on such a fleeting, ephemeral gust? Why does our prude calculating minds cower under the rabid spell of our carnal whims? Even more, the mind advocates for these sensory depravities under the guise of passion and virtuous love.
I crush the wet napkin in my hand and toss it in the bin. The soft pat as it hits the tin bottom was more gracious than any answer I could ever request.